What happens in Vegas … usually happens to me.

September 30, 2009

 

 

Overheard on the flight to Las Vegas:

He: “My favourite musical is Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”

She: “That’s all Jesus-y and God-y, and I’m not into that.”

Overheard outside the M hotel/casino: “He’s betting $44,000 at a time.”

He was not — I repeat — NOT talking about me.

Overheard outside Caesar’s Palace:

Gorgeous blonde to regular guy: “Do you work out?”

You’re shitting me, right? People actually say that to each other? And then get laid? I weep.

Oh, hello Part 1: Nine trips to Las Vegas in 10 years and we finally get a white taxi driver. Who speaks English. Whose name we can pronounce. Who woulda thunk?

Oh, hello Part 2: There are two of us in a hotel elevator. The other guy is wearing a Columbus Blue Jackets replica jersey.

Me: “Columbus, eh? I’m a Detroit Red Wings fan myself.”

Him: “I hate you.”

Me: “Doesn’t this elevator move any faster?”

Oh, hello Part 3: A taxi driver tells us prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas. He tells us ladies can come to your room but all they are allowed to do is dance. And help you choose which restaurant you are taking them to.

And then the taxi driver tells us he once picked up one of those ladies whose ass was so sore she couldn’t sit down.

That’s my kind of dancing.

What you don’t want to see inside your hotel: The water slowly gurgling down the drain after your shower leaves behind a layer of dirt that you know didn’t come off you.

What you don’t want to see outside your hotel: Workmen standing around a hole containing a large hose that leads back to a truck marked “24 Hr. Hazmat Spill Response.”

I may just skip brushing my teeth this morning. If that’s OK with you.

Not sure how this works Part 1: Security men check for room cards at the entrances to the elevator banks during the evening hours. They are nowhere in sight during the day. What changes after the sun goes down? And do I really want to know?

Not sure how this works Part 2: I’m pretty darn sure I was told to meet my sisters at the pool at 9. They’re pretty darn sure they said 10. So I wander amidst the bikini-clad denizens for an hour. Peering intently. With a camera around my neck. Sporting a telephoto lens. Because there is nothing suspicious about that at all.

Playing on the speaker in the washrooms of The Paris: The French translation for “Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?” There was no followup translation for: “Oh shit, she just kicked me in the balls.”

What I’d forgotten about Las Vegas in the year since I was last here Part 1: How many people smoke. And how these same people are kind enough to ensure that, by the end of the day, I too smell like a West Virginia tobacco plantation.

What I’d forgotten about Las Vegas in the year since I was last here Part 2: How many beautiful women you can cram into one city. And how they all want to rub up against me. OK, I may have made that last part up. I said “may.”

The recession is hurting the US in more ways than one. For instance, it appears that women can barely afford material for dresses. I’m just sayin’.

If you’re going to charge items from the hotel gift store to your room, the least you can do is remember your room number. Especially when I’m standing behind you trying to buy one lousy bottle of water. You know, for next time.

Restaurants who centre their menu items should come with a warning. That way a certain blogger wouldn’t try to order American Swiss cheese on his burger. Because that’s just silly.

Note to self: Never eat vegetables from a buffet. Not unless you enjoy the feeling of digesting broken glass. For two hours. On an airplane.

The M hotel/casino is located nine miles south of Mandalay Bay. It’s been open for six months. It is still clean. So clean, in fact, that my mother walked straight into a glass panel because she didn’t see it. I laughed until I cried. And, yes, as a matter of fact, I am going straight to Hell.

Best reason to visit America: Cherry Coke. Best. Drink. Ever.

Worst reason to visit America: Border guards: Nazi pricks. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.

A business story in USA Today tells how tall, boxy cars — the likes of Nissan Cube and Kia Soul — have recently become very popular with the American car-buying public. Hmmm. Let’s see: we bought our tall, boxy Honda Capa 18 months ago, and it was built in 1999.

Americans, eh? So far behind they think they’re ahead.

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